Speaker
by Hali Morst
Summary: What happens when you screw up an assassination? You become a hero. Lachry, Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, is charged with finding and protecting the Emperor's son, but can he keep his sanity in tact long enough?
1. The Emperor's Assassin

The Emperor's Assassin

When do you suppose it is that things start to go wrong? Is it in the womb? Or is it long before, even before anything existed? Does that mean, then, that it's only when we return to nothing that things start to go right?

_Kill...him..._

Sometimes, you don't realize that things are starting to go wrong until it's too late. You mess up; you screw up. Depending on how much the gods like or dislike you, you screw up big time. For example, a sudden gust of wind blows an arrow just a little off course, just enough for it to not pierce the armor of a certain Imperial Guard captain whose name may or may not be alliterative.

_Kill..._

And so you try to escape. Sometimes it's the only thing you can do. You run as fast as you can. You vault over fences and walls and people.

_Kill..._

And then...you trip. You shouldn't have, but you fall. You're agile, lithe, quick, but not now; not this time. Something pierces your head, fills your mind with the senseless need to bathe in blood, so strong that you lose control of your body, that all you can do is writhe on the ground and wait for it to pass as the guards surround you. It's familiar—you've felt it before, heard it before, but never this strong.

It was the damn voice.

Lachry rolled over on the stone bed, staring at the joint between the stone wall and the stone floor, his black eyes dead as the endless stone surrounding him. He bunched the pillow, a wretched thing of cloth and straw but the softest nonliving thing in the cell, into a ball and pressed an ear against it, hoping to block out the whispering. He knew it wouldn't do any good. It silenced the mutterings of the other prisoners, yes, but not the voice. The voice wasn't coming from any outside source.

He rolled over again, this time onto his back, an arm covering his closed eyes.

_...Kill...him..._

Someone was wanted dead. Someone was wanted dead badly. But who?

Wouldn't the voice know to quit? How long had he been in the prison? The days blurred together; he hadn't the faintest idea how long he had been in there. He hadn't bothered keeping track. His execution was growing closer. Perhaps he was the one this time, the target.

_They pray—Kill...—not for your death, child_.

"I suppose you aren't going to tell me any more than that, are you, my Lady." Lachry murmured.

No response. As expected. At least, no response from her. The guard outside his cell, however, did throw him an odd look. I'm going crazy, Lachry decided. Fitting, I suppose. I've heard the Lady's voice in my head for years, what's one or two more?

Lachry shuddered as the voice leaked into his brain once more. It was different from the Lady's voice, the calm, cold, but loving embrace. This one felt purely made of emptiness and hunger, tearing apart his already fragile psyche.

'If it's me wanted dead, then by Sithis, end it. I'm tired,' he thought.

"It's that cell on the left, the middle one."

Was it that time already? Perhaps the gods really did listen. Lachry turned his head to face the bars. Outside his cell stood four people, silhouetted in the torchlight.

"What's this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off-limits!"

"I can't say, sir. You know how it is..."

There was a sigh. "Never mind that. Get this cell open. Against the wall, prisoner."

Slowly, hearing his bones and muscles cry and complain from disuse, the prisoner stood and obeyed, watching in silence as the small party moved into the cell. Three guards in full Imperial armor, too many for the transport of one prisoner, and...

"No sign of pursuit, sir."

"Good. Let's go. We're not out of this yet. Where was that rock...Ah."

Lachry gaped as the bed he had just been lying on sunk into and under the floor, revealing a passageway underneath. He had tried that rock before. He had tried _all_ the rocks. It was only obligatory for a prisoner to find an escape route.

"You..."

_KILL. KILLKILLKILL—_

Lachry retched, nearly doubling over with the force of the voice. _Never_ had it been that bad.

"What's wrong with him?" one of the guards asked.

"The food here, I imagine. Don't mind him, let's just—sire?"

The prisoner felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder and, cautiously, he looked up into the face of an elderly man, into light blue eyes that knew everything Lachry had done since learning to walk and still forgave him.

"Yes...You are the one." His face grew sad, his wrinkles turning down. "Then the stars were right, and this is the day...Gods give me strength"

"Sire, we really must..."

"This one shall come with us."

"Uh...with no disrespect, I don't think that's a good idea..."

The old man didn't reply, but looked at Lachry once more. He found himself shrinking under the gaze, crushed by its weight. "What say you? Whether you come or not is your decision."

Lachry, for the first time in years, felt cornered. Not even in the presence of the Lady had he felt so vulnerable. "Before I decide...who are you?"

"Do you not know the face of—" A hand silenced the guard.

"I am your emperor, Uriel Septim. These are my Blades, my bodyguard. Assassins attacked my sons, and I am next. By chance, or perhaps more, our escape has led us through your cell."

Lachry stared, but the faces of the guards were all the confirmation he needed. It wasn't a joke.

"Sire, we must keep moving," a Blade, a woman, pleaded.

"I will die when my time has come, no sooner. I serve Tamriel as her ruler by the grace of the Gods. You, too, shall serve her in your own way." Again, the Emperor placed a hand on the prisoner's shoulder and stared into his ebony eyes. "You have done much in your life, much of it terrible, but that is not what you will be remembered for. I see the temptress of fate, the Webspinner within you. The Gods have chosen your end, and that end cannot be avoided. There will be blood and death in your time; such is inevitable."

You know all this, thought Lachry, and you still want me to follow you. And I thought I was insane.

_...kiillll hiiiimmm..._

Ah, that's right, I am.

The emperor lifted his hand. "But remember, what happens is always the result of your choices." He and the guards walked down the old stone passageway, the Blades already drawing their weapons.

The Divines are always playing with the fates of mortals, casting them into a role and watching the events unfold. Often, the actor is not appropriate for the part. However, the result is always entertaining, or gods would not bother in the first place.

Lachry followed after them.

"What are you in here for?" a Blade asked, carefully positioning himself between Lachry and the Emperor.

"At this point, will knowing that change anything?"

The Blade, an imperial, sneered. "Sure it will. I want to know if I can trust you."

Looking straight in the Blade's eyes, Lachry answered: "Murder."

"Really. You don't look so tough."

Lachry looked down. However long he had spent in jail, it hadn't served his physique well, not that he had much bulk in the first place. "The best assassin is one who doesn't look like one."

The Blade grunted. "Dark Brotherhood?"

"Yes."

"Well, at least I know you can handle a weapon then. But if you try something funny..."

Lachry furrowed his brow. "Do you think we'll be attacked down here?"

"I know it. So does the Emperor."

"By whom, if I may ask?"

Another Blade spoke up at this point. "A cult calling themselves the Mythic Dawn. They've already killed the Emperor's sons, and we expect them to try attacking the Emperor himself. The name's Baurus, by the way, and he's Glenroy. The one up in front is our captain, Renault."

"Lachry."

Renault stopped, nearly causing the emperor to run into her. The other two Blades gripped their swords tighter and she dismissed them. "Lachry...Filir Lachry?"

The assassin swallowed. "That's right."

"Ha! Dark Brotherhood indeed..." She moved on, but Lachry could see a certain stiffness in her step. "Fighting assassins with assassins...what next..."

_...kill..._

"Are you all right?"

Lachry removed his hand from his head. "Yeah...just a headache. I'm fine."

Could it be...? He stared at the back of the Emperor's head, at the waves of gray hair. It only made sense...

He tore his gaze from the Emperor and looked around the stone chambers. It was a terrible place. The center of the room was well lit, brightened by dusty light coming in through small openings in the ceiling, but there were so many corners and hideaways. Lachry relaxed slightly. These assassins were novices. If it had been him, the Emperor would already be...Wait.

In one of the crannies, the darkness had a distinctive red hue.

Lachry nudged Baurus as discreetly as he could and pointed with his eyes. Baurus nodded.

"Stay near the Emperor. Get a weapon as soon as you can."

The other Blades, following Baurus's lead, took formation around the Emperor just as three men in blood red robes, intricate silver armor _growing_ on their bodies, various weapons forming in their hands, jumped from the shadows and attacked.

"For Lord Dagon!"

Steel clashed with Ebony around the Emperor and the prisoner. "Give me a weapon," Lachry asked of no one in particular, surprising himself. He honestly wanted to defend the Emperor. But at the same time...

The cultist attacking Baurus fell, his magicked armor fading away, followed by the one attacking Glenroy. The final Mythic Dawn agent was on the other side of the room battling Renault, and he seemed to be winning. Baurus rushed at the agent, katana outstretched.

A knife emerged from the back of Renault's armor, then withdrew. She crumpled in front of the assassin.

"Damn it!" Baurus yelled, slicing through the armor of Renault's murderer and casting him aside, against the wall and away from Renault's body. The Blade knelt next to his fallen captain, joined by Glenroy and Emperor Septim.

"The Gods will not abandon her," the Emperor said softly.

Baurus dipped his head. "No, she was an ideal Blade. We can only hope they don't abandon us."

"They won't. They never do." Lachry noticed a strange glance in his direction from the Emperor, and then noticed a sword being handed to him.

"Take it," Baurus said. "We need all the help we can get. You can use a blade, right?"

Nodding, Lachry took the weapon. He had little experience with swords, but it was considerably better than fighting bare-handed. "Is it all right?"

"Yes. She wouldn't want it to go to waste. Emperor, we should hurry."

As they continued through the passages, Lachry tested out the sword a ways behind the group. It was far from a weapon of stealth, but the Blades were not warriors of shadow. It was a weapon accustomed to a face-to-face duel rather than a stab in the back. He wasn't sure if he liked it; the concept of seeing his victim's face while killing him was alien to him. Regardless, it would have to do. He wondered vaguely if his old dagger still waited for him in that old ruin...

"It's a dead end!"

Lachry jolted from his thoughts. Indeed, it was the end of the road. They were surrounded by thick slate stones. What appeared to have been an exit at one point was now covered.

"A trap?"

The Blades looked at each other and seemed to come to an agreement. "Lachry, stay with the Emperor," Baurus commanded. "Defend him with your life."

"I will."

With that, Baurus and Glenroy rushed out of the room, crying their battle cries. So, it's just the assassin and the target now, Lachry mused. Someone else's target and someone else's assassin, of course, but nevertheless...

_...kill..._

'Gods not again.'

Lachry heard the battle starting in the previous room. "Emperor, move this way please. Out of sight." The Emperor complied for a moment, but then he grabbed Lachry's hand and spun him around.

'Oh Gods, my head. Get out of my head...'

"My time has come," Emperor Septim said. He reached behind his head and unhooked the necklace holding the large red crystal, then held it out to Lachry. "Take this Amulet of Kings to Jauffre at Weynon Priory. Close shut the jaws of Oblivion."

"W-wait, what? No, your Blades are holding them—arrgh..."

Uriel Septim forced the stone into Lachry's free hand and again placed a hand on the prisoner's shoulder. Fatherly, that's what it was. 'That's why I like him so much. Gods please don't make me do it.'

"Remember: The Gods may choose your fate, but you choose whether or not to follow it."

_...KILL!_

Lachry choked. "Sire...please forgive me."

"I will."

The assassin plunged the katana through the Emperor.

Standing behind him, entering through the once sealed exit, came a man in red robes. He raised his hand to conjure the magical armor, but stopped, gawking. "You..."

It was all the Mythic Dawn agent could say before he, too, found himself with a sword in his stomach.

"Pray for death, and I will find you," was the last phrase the cultist heard, whispered in his ear by a voice cold as night, before dying.

Lachry stood for what felt like hours over the body of the Mythic Dawn agent, blood dripping from the blade onto the robes, until he felt a set of big hands grasp his slight shoulders and shake him hard.

"...ened here?"

It was all a daze, but the voice was gone. It left its customary spot in his head cold and empty. No, it wasn't gone, it was hibernating, hidden away until a new target was found.

"Damn it, man, what happened here?"

Shaking, Lachry raised the Amulet.

"The Amulet of Kings...he gave it to you?"

"Jauffre...I need to take it to Jauffre."

Baurus was silent for a time, looking at the body of his fallen Emperor, and when he spoke his voice was dull. "Yes...that is all we can do. The Blades have failed, but perhaps there is still hope...Go now. I'll guard the Emperor's body. More may still come."

"I'm sorry..."

"You did what you could. Just go."

Lachry set down the katana and left. After walking for some time, he thought he heard sobs. He ran the rest of the way.

The exit wasn't far. The culverts ended in a large cylindrical tunnel opening to a small beach a ways outside the Imperial City. Straight ahead was an old dock with an equally old boat bobbing in the wind waves.

The sky was weeping.

Lachry raised his arms and face to the rain. If anyone besides the Gods could hear him, they would never know if he cried or laughed.


	2. Promises

Well, I'm back. I think. I've had these documents sitting on my computer for the longest time and, with the release of Skyrim, Lachry has been simply begging me to write his tale. I've also decided to take a different route and eliminate some of the bits that I feel aren't important to Lachry's character and that we've all seen way too many times in response to one reviewer. Hope you guys enjoy, and I hope I can stick with it this time. I've got some exciting deaths planned :3

* * *

Promises

Lachry shook out the map in his hands. It was an old map, faded by weather and light, and most of Gold Coast had fallen into the sea. He would have to get a new one shortly.

"Where are we, exactly? Just point." He held the map lower and a weak finger pointed to a tiny island northeast of the Imperial City. "Ah, good, not far from old Roxey, then. Is it still in business?"

A voice replied from below, "Yes, sir, and as good as ever, sir. Um...I can't feel my legs, sir."

"Hmm...I wonder if Malene kept her end of the promise...Oy, what's the date?"

"Umm...Harvest's End, sir. The 27th of Last Seed, sir."

"Ha! Well, how about that...I was supposed to be executed tomorrow. Funny old world, isn't it."

"Yes, very funny, sir. Haha..."

The assassin looked to the sky. "It seems to be about...what would you say, ten in the morning? If I start now, I can get to the Roxey Inn in time for a hot meal and a warm bed...well, something like a bed, anyway."

"It sounds very nice, sir."

"And what have we learned about jumping strangers who have had a very bad morning?"

"Shan't do it again, sir."

"Very good." Lachry rose from his seat atop the bandit, gave him a swift kick in the head—just enough to knock him out—and stretched. He had a long walk ahead of him.

"Well, if it isn't my least favorite patron."

"You know you like me, Miss Malene," Lachry said, leaving against the counter.

"Mmm, at least you don't smell..." the innkeeper said, gesturing subtly at the rest of the guests. Lachry threw a quick look over his shoulder. There were several small groups of wandering adventurers, but there was also an unusual number of Legion Soldiers. They looked the most drunk of the bunch, and the most somber. "I figure you want your old room? I kept your equipment in the chest."

Lachry smiled. "Thank you. I'm glad I still have a friend here."

"Bah, it's the least I could do after that nonsense with Raelynn last year." The Nord leaned forward, her rough face suddenly serious. "Now, I'm not blaming you for it, yet, but I need to know. You didn't have any part in this mess, did you? It looks funny, what with you suddenly turning up again."

"What mess?" Lachry asked.

"You mean you don't know? The Emperor was assassinated!"

"Oh, that."

"Oh, that?" Malene scoffed. "Do you know what these means? There's no one left to claim the throne! Chancellor Ocato and the rest of the Elder Council will keep the Empire from falling apart for a time, of course, but...it's just not the same."

"Yes...Well, I'm sure everything will turn out all right in the end," the man replied, pushing away from the counter.

The innkeeper scowled. "You didn't answer my question."

Lachry stopped just before the stairs. "The Emperor was a great man. Whoever wanted him dead doesn't deserve life."

Malene watched as the man walked up the stairs. Something broke that one, she thought to herself. "Oh well, he's be fine. He's a springy one."

Lachry felt anything but springy as he lowered himself onto the bed. He sighed in a moment of bliss. It was the softest thing his body had felt in months. His weapons and armor were exactly where he left them, just as Malene promised. He quickly shed his prison garb—clothes which honestly couldn't have been described as clothes at this point except for that fact that they covered him up—threw them out the window, and replaced them with his old uniform. It was a complete suit of soft black leather and more belts and strings and compartments than Lachry imagined anyone would ever need. He drew his cloak from the chest as well, but didn't put it on; It would make for a nice blanket. Under the cloak rested his weapons: a bow, Shadowhunt, and the Blade of Woe. He smiled briefly at them, greeting old friends and allies, and then reached into the chest and pulled out a necklace, a simple copper amulet. He turned to set it on the table behind him—and winced.

The Amulet of Kings was staring at him with a crimson eye.

The assassin looked away hurriedly and busied himself with his map. Sticking to the roads going south on foot it would take six days to get to Bravil. From there, he could...

_The Brotherhood will welcome you back with open arms, of course. They still wait by my statue every week, _Lachry heard the Lady sigh. _Arquen has been dear to them in your absence._

Lachry thought back to the High Elf, infinitely waiting for him in the Sanctuary, always with the torch and the robes. Yes, she would be the logical replacement, wouldn't she. The guild was probably doing well under her leadership. Lachry had never been much of a leader, anyway. He preferred to be the one doing the job, not the one telling others to do it. He was so obsessed with the work that he even stole a target from a deranged cult.

He could feel the stone's gaze burning a hole in his back.

_Can you feel it, my child?_

"Unfortunately."

It was a tendril of coldness, of ice, of a starless night reaching through his soul, the smell of Nightshade petals, steel, and burning candles, the whisper of a chant.

_However, they do not call the Brotherhood._

Lachry turned, eyes widened, and then felt stupid. There was no one to turn to in shock. The Night Mother was in his head. "The Morag Tong?"

_No, what they call are the original assassins: the Daedra._

Memories flooded the Listener's mind, pictures from spell books of horned men dyed red with blood, of creatures half man and half beast, of enormous reptilian monsters. There had been that time once, so long ago, when he had come face to face with a Daedra, one summoned by a foolish young mage. It had been his first time seeing a mass slaughter. If he hadn't witnessed that, how different would he be today...

"...Who's the target?"

_Everyone._

After a moment, Lachry opened his map again. Five days compared to six...

"Arquen does make a good Listener."

_She does._

"And I'd hate for the Brotherhood to find themselves out of business on account of there being no more people to kill."

_Yes._

"Then let's take the long way home."

The next morning, Lachry traveled west.

A fort, Lachry had expected. An armory or a barracks, perhaps. He looked down at his map and then back up at the buildings before him. This was it. Weynon Priory. It was an abbey. It consisted of a small chapel, a rather sizable house, a farm, and a well in what Lachry assumed could be called a courtyard.

'Monks. What are we going to do, pray at them?' He sighed and entered the Priory House.

The chapel of Weynon Priory was cold, but it was a comfortable harvest cold. Lachry burrowed deeper under his cape and the blankets Jauffre had loaned to him and stared at the stained glass windows. There were nine in all, small replicas of the windows normally adorning the halls of city cathedrals, each one with a colorful representation of one of the Nine Divines.

'Nine is such an odd number,' Lachry thought idly as he waited for sleep to envelop him. 'It's really Eight and One, of course, but...Why Nine?' Ten was a good even number; Gods liked symmetry. Even their cathedrals were symmetric, with the exception of the number of windows and altars.

_You think strange thoughts when left alone._

"I have to think something to fill the silence."

_I could speak to you more often._

"Thank you, Night Mother, but that won't be necessary. I like having my head to myself from time to time."

Lachry found himself staring at the window of Akatosh. Out of all the gods, Akatosh was the only one without human form, instead taking the form of a dragon. Why was that, he wondered. Gods left so many questions unanswered. They had no rhyme nor reason and gave no explanations, and yet they expected man and mer to worship them unquestioningly.

Akatosh, however, he meant something. He alone continued to deal with the people of Cyrodill, protecting them from Oblivion.

"Akatosh," Lachry whispered. "If you will listen to the mumblings of an assassin, guide me."


	3. The Siege of Kvatch

The Siege of Kvatch

Fire.

The sky was burning.

He stumbled past the rubble—wasn't that pile of wood and stone over there the bakery?—barely managing to keep his footing on the suddenly rough and hot terrain. Smoke filled his lungs and he choked. He covered his mouth, but his hands tasted of soot and blood. Tears collected in his stinging eyes. He had to run. He had to get away, but where?

In the distance, a dark shape against the red, lightning-carved sky, was a building left standing. He scrambled towards it. The temple, he would be safe in the cathedral. Could Daedra enter cathedrals?

The Daedra. That was right. They did this.

He looked over his shoulder; that was a mistake. Behind him, already quickly gaining on him, were two men—no, they were anything but men—made entirely of fire. They saw his fear and used it to spur themselves on. He was going to die.

"Akatosh...Help me!"

In the back of his mind, unused for years, he felt knowledge reawaken. He held out a hand, fingers outstretched. Coldness and ice flowed through his veins, through his hand, and out like an arrow towards the monsters. One took the hit in the chest. Instantly it turned into a pillar of ice, and then shattered. The other dodged, but only just, leaving a patch of frost in the middle of the burning city. The fire stopped, looking at its destroyed companion, and laughed.

"Run, mortal!"

He did.

After a while, he noticed that he no longer felt the hot presence of the monster behind him. Still running, he took another look over his shoulder. It was no longer following him, but was slowly moving to a pile of flaming wreckage. He heard the whimpers.

He rushed back, calling his unpracticed magic skills. "Get away!" he yelled, raising his hand. The Flame Atronach mimicked his action. An orb of fire and an orb of ice passed each other in midair and then hit their intended targets.

The fiery Daedra, like his former, burst into a small pile of rapidly melting ice. He sighed with relief, and then then gasped. A hand flew to his shoulder and then carefully moved away. A good section of his robe was gone and the skin underneath was raw and burnt; he was going to regret touching it so quickly and harshly as soon as the nerves in his shoulder came out of shock. He called the magic again, but of a different sort. Soothing coolness flowed to the burn. It wasn't much, but it would last until he made it to the chapel, at least.

He leaned into the rubble the Daedra was so interested in. Two small voices yelped and he quickly made a motion to silence them.

"It's me; the monsters are gone."

Twin faces, covered in ash, looked at him through the smoke.

"Brother Martin...?"

Lachry awoke with a start. His hand clutched at his chest. He closed his eyes and stilled his breathing. It was just a dream. Kvatch was still most of a day's ride away and it certainly wasn't on fire. His campfire had gone out and was now only producing smoke...a lot more smoke than a campfire should. The assassin poked at it with his dagger. It had gone out several hours ago.

Then why was there so much smoke in the air?

Glaring at the smokeless campfire, he put his on his cape, quiver, and sheath. Something wasn't right.

"Being a Listener doesn't make one prophetic, does it?"

_I suppose it could._

"Bugger."

He knew he was getting close to Kvatch. The smoke only grew thicker the closer he got. He tugged at the neck of his uniform, pulling up the loose cloth to cover his mouth and nose.

"Run!"

Over the hill came a mer, a High Elf, tripping over himself to get away. He noticed Lachry, particularly the way Lachry's horse was facing, in the direction the Altmer was running from, and stopped.

"What are you doing? Run while you can! They can't hold them off forever!" His face was covered in ash. 'Just like the dream...'

Already Lachry already had a guess as to the answer, he asked: "What are you running from?"

"Gods' blood, haven't you heard? The Daedra, they attacked! Kvatch is destroyed!" the Altmer exclaimed. "There were portals all around the city walls, and a huge creature breathing fire...they swarmed around it...killing..."

Lachry looked up the hill. Thousands of trees still blocked his view of the city, but he could see a thick column of smoke rising above the canopy where Kvatch would be.

"The whole city can't be destroyed," he replied calmly. This seemed to enrage the elf further.

"Kvatch is gone! We're the only ones who survived; everyone else is dead!"

"We?"

"A few survivors and some of the guards...they're trying to hold them off, but it's just a matter of time. I-I'm getting out of here. There's nothing that can stop that, not even the Gods. Run!"

The Altmer ran on. Lachry watched him go with some amount of jealousy, then nudged the sides of Prior Maborel's horse. She complied, albeit hesitantly. She seemed to sense what was up ahead.

"Don't worry, I'm not taking you the whole way. You'd be a distraction," Lachry said. The horse didn't believe him.

Before long, he came across a camp. There were maybe twenty people, all of them equally worn and weary. He dismounted and tied the horse to a tree a short distance from the camp. A few of the people came up to him, their faces a book of disaster, grief, and curiosity.

"What are you doing here?"

"Didn't you hear?"

"Our home..."

"Filir?"

Lachry's eyes widened. Standing before him was a Nord. She wore an elegant blue dress, although it was torn and blackened now, and her golden hair was barely held in a bun.

"Sigrid," Lachry breathed.

"What are you doing here, Filir!" Sigrid exclaimed, taking him by the arms. "I heard you were expelled from the guild—no, that's not important. What are you doing _here?_"

Under the soot, he noticed the tell-tale stains on her fingers. "Still at the potions, I see. You didn't blow something up again, did—" He rubbed the slap mark from his cheek. "Yes, I suppose that was in order."

"That was absolutely tasteless," Sigrid replied, massaging her hand.

"Yes, I'm sorry," Lachry said. "Sigrid, what happened here? This isn't all the survivors, is it?"

She shook her head. "No, the city guard is at the top of the hill. There are more survivors in the chapel, but there's a...a Daedric portal of some sort..."

"Is there a man named Martin?"

Sigrid knotted her eyebrows. "Martin? The priest? I don't know, but I suppose he would be in the chapel..."

"Thank you."

"You're not going up there, are you?" She sighed. "No, of course you are. But what do you plan to do?"

Lachry shrugged. "I'll improvise."

"Don't do anything...unusually stupid."

"I never do." He removed his bow from its resting place and pulled out an arrow. He had a feeling he would need them shortly.

Fear crept into his soul with every step up the hill to Kvatch. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation. There was always that nervousness. He felt it every time he was sent on a dead drop. What if someone saw him kill? He knew the answer to that now: he would get thrown in jail, scheduled to be executed after a year, but then would get miraculously released and sent on an insane adventure to potentially save the Empire, but _before_ there had been a sense of an unknown future. This was a different kind of fear. He knew that something terrible awaited him at the top of the hill; it wasn't unknown at all.

The sky slowly turned from an dark ashy gray to a fiery sanguine red. Lightning crackled through the clouds, rushing away from Kvatch. 'Even the lightning is getting away,' Lachry mused and continued on his climb. Coming from the top of the hill, he heard the clanging of armor and the cries of battling men. He quickened his pace and nocked the arrow.

He took fifty more steps, then let the arrow loose. It planted itself in the heart of a half-goat, half-man creature who promptly fell to the ground. The soldiers who had been attacking it turned in amazement.

"Need help?"

"Who sent you?" one of them called.

"A monk," Lachry answered, drawing another arrow. He let it loose and killed another Scamp. "Where is the..." another arrow nocked, another Daedra down, "...chapel?"

"Behind that." The soldier pointed.

Past the admittedly pathetic wooden fences the soldiers had constructed, guarding a charred city wall, was a gate. It had an oval shape formed from newly-made stone. Yellow light crackled all around it and in it while the innermost part was a translucent ruby wall. It hummed with a terrible screeching noise that would stick in his head for eternity.

"We can't get past it, not while Daedra keep coming out. We sent a few men in...Are you all right?"

Lachry scowled, holding his head. "I'm fine, it's just...never mind. We can enter that thing?"

"I wouldn't advise it. They never came back out...Wait, what are you...?"

The archer strode towards the gate. He bent over and tugged one of his arrows from the limp body of a Scamp Daedra and inserted it into the gate. He withdrew it and cautiously felt its tip. It hadn't been transfigured in any way nor had it burned. It felt slightly warm, but only from the body of the monster.

"I'm improvising."

Lachry took a step into Oblivion.

_KILL!_

Lachry clutched his head. The voice, again...It was strong, but it wasn't focused. It was a general maliciousness to anything living. He needed to get out of here fast.

Oblivion...it certainly lived up to its name. It looked everything like the innards of a volcano. Lava bubbled all around him, outlining a narrow path. The path itself wound by the lava and ended in a great steel war gate. Behind that, dark from a distance, stood three great towers. The tallest of which had, at the very top, a small—although it was probably quite big up close, Lachry reasoned—keyhole-shaped orange light.

"That'd be the goal, then." Lachry walked towards it.

"Help!"

To his left, coming up the fiery path, was a guard followed by a Scamp. It, too, fell to a well-aimed arrow. Lachry sighed. He wished the rest of the creatures in Oblivion would be this easy. This was just the outer edges of the dimension, he decided, where monsters used fear rather than strength.

The guard kept running for a while until he noticed that he was no longer being chased. "Thank you," he breathed. "My allies..." he pointed, gasping for air, at the war gate behind him. "They...they went in there...I heard the screams...and then the screams stopped...I think they..."

"Get back," Lachry said, looking straight ahead.

"It's too dangerous, you should..."

"It is too dangerous. So you should get back and help your friends back in our world," Lachry said with a smile and murder in his eyes.

_Kill..._

"Um...well, yes...thank you, sir...thank you very much..." the soldier stuttered and moved toward the gate. "You should be careful; there's nasty things in there."

"I know."

The guard left and Lachry gasped in relief. Any longer and he might have...As long as there was no one else in here...He stretched out, not taking his gaze from the tower in the distance.

"There are nasty things in here; I'm one of them. And now the fun begins."

He pulled up the neck of his uniform, shrugged the hood over his head, and withdrew the Blade of Woe from its hilt on his leg. Then he ran.

He leaped over rocks and boulders and bodies, a couple of them Daedra, several of them men. As he passed the war gate, he saw most of the Kvatch soldiers, dead. They had the right idea, at least. They were on the correct side of the war gate. Lachry eyed it. There was no way through it, so he would have to find a way around...or above. Bracing the gate on both sides were large piles of boulders. It certainly wasn't the easiest way, but he wasn't interested in ease. He clenched the dagger between his teeth, got on all fours, and climbed.

_Kill..._

"Oh, I will," he said through the metal in his mouth.

There was an advantage to the voice, and the Dark Brotherhood had discovered it long before Lachry had. It focused him. Nothing mattered except killing the target. Self-restraint fled when the voice took over. Doubts that normally would have held his body back disappeared. He was the harvester of souls, the reaper.

In this world, anything alive was only there to be killed.

Lachry slid down the other side of the wall, carefully skipping over the limp bodies of the guards. He continued forward. There were a couple Daedra in his way—great lizardlike beasts with shields for heads. He left deep incisions in their necks as he passed by. Surely all Daedra could be killed normally. They were, after all, alive.

Leathery spines rose behind him from the ground in a pathetic attempt to impede his progress. There was something in this tower that needed to be killed. He wasn't going to stop.

He was in the tower. It was a circular building with a great pillar of fire rising through the middle. There were more Daedra—human-shaped, like the ones that had attacked the Mages Guild long ago. Lachry ignored them. They were well-armored; they wouldn't go down easily, not by arrow nor by his dagger, and they weren't important. They didn't need to die. He just had to sneak by and...

"Mortal!"

"Aye, things just don't go easily, do they?" He fell into the nearest doorway and scrambled up the steps. He just had to hope that he wouldn't get outnumbered, that they would lose interest...Of course they wouldn't lose interest. They were Daedra. He would have to lose them, somehow...

"Hello, what's this?"

Lachry looked up. There were spikes jutting from the ceiling, as long as he was tall. He looked down to the foot of the stairs. The Daedra had just entered the door and were now standing on a platform that didn't seem attached to the ground, but to a lift. It had holes in it. Lachry's hand found a lever and he pulled it.

That was a few less Daedra he had to worry about, he reasoned as he continued up the spiraling stairs. He slowed his pace. He still had a lot of stairs to climb and he could be more silent walking.

The next floor had more Daedra, but it was incredibly dark. One side of the hall had the filtered light of a thin leathery wall and the other side was dimly lit by...

Lachry lost his focus for a moment, just long enough for human emotion to flow back in and cause him to retch. Hanging from the far wall was a human body on fire. He left the room quickly, using the darkness as a cover.

More stairs. If anything, the Daedra would never have a disadvantage concerning elevation. Anyone attacking the tower's keepers would be hacking at knees. There were more human bodies on the next floor—he passed by them without looking. The smell was bad enough.

'Whatever sort of evil I am, I'm no match for this...' he thought, but didn't entirely believe it.

"Wait!"

Lachry nearly tripped, shocked by the sudden human voice. He whipped his gaze around, searching for the source. His fingers twitched for an arrow.

"In the cage! Up here!"

In a cage suspended above him was a man. He was unclothed and had a few cuts, but was otherwise uninjured. Lachry automatically reached into a pocket and pulled out a lock pick, not just to free the man, but to keep his fingers busy.

_Kill him!_

"It's no good," the man said. "They're not human locks, and there isn't much time. You need to close the gate."

"How? Do you know how?"

The man nodded. "At the top of the pillar of fire in the highest room of the tower is a flaming stone. Take that and the gate will close."

"Thank you. When I get the stone, I'll come back."

_Kill!_

"Just close the gate!"

_KILL!_

Lachry had to run. He had to get away. He would come back, he would try and rescue the man, but not now. He was too close to breaking, to killing uncontrollably.

One more set of stairs led him to a hall without a ceiling. Above him was nothing but the scarred sky. The hall wrapped to the left and opened into a middle chamber. It wasn't good at all; out of all the floors before, this was the most well-lit. This was the room where the fire pillar ended and it bathed the room and the groups of Daedra inside in a brilliant orange light. There would be no stealth here.

The assassin took a breath and nocked an arrow. A couple of them were relatively unarmored. He could take them down, but the rest...He leaned into the doorway just enough to view the room again. In the very center, just as the man had said, was a stone balanced on the pillar of fire.

He threw himself into the doorway and unleashed the arrows. They hit their marks, but they also alerted the other, better armored Daedra. They screamed and dove for him and he plunged for the stone. He wrapped his fingers around it and ripped it from its base.

The world caught fire and he kept running. He tucked the stone under his arms and ran back to the door he came from. The tower was going to collapse while he was still in it! He had to get out, fast. He flew down the stairs...

...and then the floor was gone. He was running on air. The ground was several feet below him. He curled in on himself and rolled until he finally came to a splayed stop lying spread-eagled on the dirt facing the gray sky.

A few raindrops fell on his face.

"It's not a Daedra! It's that crazy man!"

The gate was closed. He was back. It was raining.

Someone took his hand and pulled him to his feet. Several hands patted him on the back. Someone may have hugged him.

"The chapel! We have to find the rest of the survivors!"

That snapped him from his stupor. He had to find Martin. He allowed himself to be dragged into the chapel. "Martin...I need to find a man named Martin."

"Don't you worry, sir, he'll be with the survivors. I can't believe what I just saw. You flew out of that gate like a dragon, fire everywhere. Best thing I've seen all week."

"Right, glad I could give you a show," Lachry muttered.

He heard the man who had been supporting him run off calling for Martin. He leaned against the wall of the chapel, but leaning soon wasn't enough and he sunk to the ground. He was coming off the killing high again. He cradled his head. The voice's hibernation left him feeling wasted, like his insides had been pulled taut and then let go. And then the rain...always with the rain...

"Does he need healing? If not, there's not much I can do..."

"Well, he looks all right to me, maybe a little shaken, but he was asking for you."

"For me?"

Lachry looked up and saw the face of the Emperor.

"Martin," the emperor's assassin said. "Your father sent me to find you."


End file.
